


The Witching Hour

by sahdah



Category: Soul Eater
Genre: Child Abandonment, F/M, Resonance Bang 2020, angst feelings, mother loss, mother wounds
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-01
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-13 20:41:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29781801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sahdah/pseuds/sahdah
Summary: It’s been ten years and Maka is still grappling with the perfect ghost of her imperfect mother. The more she holds to this illusion the more her real life relationships suffer. Will she ever come to terms with the fact that Marika Kimura not only abandoned Spirit but chose to abandon Maka as well? It has always been easier to blame Spirit but as her mama’s silence continues Maka is no longer so sure.
Relationships: Maka Albarn/Soul Eater Evans, Spirit Albarn | Death Scythe & Blair
Comments: 8
Kudos: 25
Collections: Soul Eater Resonance Bang 2020





	The Witching Hour

**Author's Note:**

> Hi this is my submission for Soul Eater Resonance Bang 2020! So happy to be participating in this event again. 2020 was a weird year to say the least, but I'm grateful for the MODs for continuing the event which has been a comfort. I had the joy of working with @Bellflowerss and @Blinkfl0yd be sure to check out their arts! A special thanks to the beta baes that helped me clean up this piece <3 <3 <3 And Dollypopup-- I always remember the "Maka's mama" conversations we had a few years back!

  
  


The witching hour has come and gone and Maka’s brain keeps ticking in sync with the clock on Soul’s night stand. This is problematic. Not sleeping is problematic. The blue light from her phone screen is problematic and all for varying reasons. But, right now she’s irritated and can’t sleep. Mind refusing any logic to shut down.

Soft snores emanate from her weapon’s direction, even a persistent heavy hand nudge to his thigh can't make his breathing even out. On top of which his ass is getting too warm for comfort on her bare leg, but that’s a problem for future Maka. Right now she’s aiming to run from the question that keeps her up most nights-- the sex is incredible, so why can’t she just  _ sleep _ next to him? The issue always whittles down to the matter of when… when is she going to fucking cut and run. It’s obvious Soul isn’t going to… so that leaves… her. But when?

When he no longer makes her tremble and shake like waves breaking? When he finally stops asking her where he left the remote, his keys, or phone? When she doesn’t say something stupid about music that hurts his love of the greats? When he no longer butchers the English language into something that doesn’t make sense to anyone who isn’t her? 

It’s a waiting game she’s tired of playing. 

Even taking a deep breath and attempting to disengage her deeply knotted eyebrows doesn’t help. The kneading fingers of her restless hand unable to smooth the perpetual wrinkle. 

When? 

When is she going to stop waiting for her mother to come back to her?

The vice cinches tighter with each exhale.

...Unwanted.

It’s what she is. Only Soul hasn’t figured that out yet. 

Everything she’s ever done. Every goal she’s ever crossed off her list. Every breath she’s taken since she stepped out of her home was to make it one step closer to being sought after.

It’s so fucking hard. So fucking hard to have a one sided relationship with a person who wants absolutely nothing to do with her. Why? Why doesn’t her mother love her at all? 

3:33

The glow of the clock burns behind unshed tears. It’s been ten fucking years and she’s still mourning her mother. Maka’s unuttered wishes are a litany of -- Why can’t she just be dead? It’d be easier if she were dead. Or, when the darker times hit-- WHY THE FUCK DIDN'T SHE ABORT ME AND GET IT OVER WITH??? Or, and her throat tightens because this is the most insidious wish on her list -- Why couldn’t she have traded places with Papa?

A hot tear leaves a salt trail down her cheek. 

It’s been ten years. Ten years and nothing.

At seventeen Maka had realized the post cards she so cherished came from Spirit-- and after the Moon, it felt hollow to let him continue his farce. 

The light of the blackened moon, what manages to escape, keeps the room dark and it does little to comfort her. Crona is the reason the madness has been held at bay these last eight years and when Maka isn’t throwing spare brain cells at the perplexity that is her mother, or isn’t guiltlessly losing herself to the affection Soul gives her, or running from her papa’s insufferable attention, she thinks of Crona. Of why they would sacrifice themselves the way they did for a world of people who now mostly complain that the moon has gone dark. Forget the absence of madness -- they bitch about the sacrifice her friend made to save all their ungrateful selves, to save her and Soul. 

Maka scrubs at the angry tears. She still hasn’t found a way to free them. How can she? She can’t even free herself from Marika’s clutches. ‘Why’ is a useless fucking question. There is no why. There’s only the fact that it happened. And the looming when. 

[[WHY???]] The screen is blurry but her fingers have typed the question out so many times the phone is basically programmed.

It vibrates softly with an immediate response. [[Cant sleep?]]

She exhales air forcibly from her nostrils before continuing. [[Why didn’t she just cut me out before she had me? Why did she have to wait until she cut you out of her life as well?]]  _ When is Soul going to realize she isn’t the sunshine girl everyone believes her to be. _ When is he going to see that she’s just as filled with madness, her blood might even be black by now.

Her father was a child, ignorant and stupid when he conceived her. Maka may as well be asking him why people think the earth is flat or why others think subreddits hold the answers to the future. 

The ellipses glow and dim hypnotically before his response comes through. [[I asked her to keep you]]

Her body jolts forward, and behind her Soul grunts and rolls over with a soft puff of breath. [[YOU WHAT?!]]

Out of the many things she expected him to say this wasn’t even on the list. Of all the stupid, self-centered, narcissistic things she expected Spirit Albarn to say-- admittedly this was not it. Ignoring the ellipses she plows on with her assessment. [[So she did want to abort me?]] Tonight is an especially bad night. [[You should have let her]] She rolls back sinking into the embrace of Soul’s memory foam and Egyptian cotton. 

Maka’s eyes are burning, her body is beyond tired, but because her mind refuses to disengage all she sees is red. Her body flinches involuntarily as she tries to thumb out of the message window and the phone falls in a blink hitting her cheek further igniting her rage. Before she can retaliate, a warm rough hand beats her to the blue light before her lock screen engages and the room plunges back into black moon light and alarm clock illumination. Soul places the phone face down on the side table with firm finality.

She doesn’t even realize her body is shaking until he whispers, “Can I hold you?”

_ Rip me to shreds,  _ she wants to scream it but all that comes out is a broken sob. The arms come next. He tucks her under his chin and she presses her ear against his scarred chest. The urge to pull away hits like an unpredicted wave because that’s all she needs right now, another reminder of how she, by virtue of trying to  _ protect _ him, left Soul wide open to attack. Had the tables been turned Ragnarok could have saved her ten years of existential crisis. 

His wavelength pulses back to her,  _ never. Never in a million years would I ever.  _

  
He doesn’t have to tell her how it hurts that she feels this way; over their link it’s so faint that it’s hard to tell it’s even there. She holds on; his chest expands and contracts, measured, calculated in the key of G minor.  _ Good. _ She takes a deep breath. 

Everyday, there’s a smile plastered to her face. Most days that smile is genuine. And maybe she gives every day to others out of an ingrained, innate sense of justice. But the nights are hers. And maybe sleep comes soon. But never soon enough…

//

Hours later Spirit meets Maka at Deathbucks.

Her eyes narrow. He doesn't say anything, but the large, iced, whip cream topped coffee sweating is clearly waiting for her. 

"Are you--" his mouth is rounded forming the next vowel sound. 

Instead of letting him finish, she yanks the chair across from him out, feeling the disgust that radiates from her face. It's habit, but she takes a deep breath through her mouth to avoid his expensive cologne before neutralizing her expression. "Why do you ask?" 

He knows the answer and she avoids the pain in his eyes. Spirit is the only person she treats this way. A small thought bubbles to the surface, Soul's face meeting the hard bindings of her books or the flat chop of her glove, before she stuffs the lid tightly on  _ that _ thought. 

Why does this man even care? She should just ask. But  _ he _ isn't the one she wants answers from. Never has been.  _ Why did you leave him, mama?  _ "Why did you ask her to keep me?" she asks, instead. 

His blue eyes take her in and it makes her feel uncomfortable. Scrutinized. Very measured he says, "I wanted you."

Tch! And the words simmer her anger.  _ Pervert,  _ is the word that comes to mind. Her mind hovers on the brink of a tailspin but his next words cut through her mental fog.

"Men want families, too, you know."

She wants to deny his claim. Except, Sid comes forcibly to mind. Then Kilik, caring for the twins. Even Stein loves Shelley. So Maka grinds her teeth. 

Spirit sits there, almost as if he can see the trail of her thoughts. She sits observing him right back. Daring him to speak when she hasn't given him the order. 

Maybe she imagined ever having a mother. Is it possible she sprang forth from this arrogant man's head like Kid, a product of his father’s invention?

"I don't get you!" Over emotional. “You cheated on her! You drove her away-- you can’t say you wanted a family and then just just just do what you did!” 

He is pained that much is evident. "I know." It's a quiet admission. But an admission nonetheless, not an excuse, not a justification. And it pisses her off.

The coffee is more sugar than caffeine but that's probably for the best because it at least sidetracks her for a moment. 

"If I knew then what I know now…" he trails off looking somewhere past her. 

Finally, she flings the words she'd always known he'd harbored. "You'd be free to chase skirts without the guilt," she hisses. Blaming him has always been the path of least resistance. The gratification hasn’t been there for years now, now it only brings her a sense of guilt and maybe something a lot like shame.

"No." And for all of his faults, he isn’t scared of her wrath. They stare at one another. "I'm happy with Blair." 

Papa is happy, of course. Maka's eyes roll as she stabs her straw repeatedly into the ice. 

"That makes you angry."

The straw stills. 

His next words are quiet. "Marika is nothing like Blair."

Her nostrils flare. 

"She isn't here Maka. And while I'm--" he makes a strangled sound before pressing on-- " _ fully _ responsible for my part of our relationship breaking down.” He adds ‘now’ after she shoots him a withering glare. “She's responsible for choosing to leave -- that was  _ her _ choice."

Maka scoffs at the emotion behind Spirit's eyes. "Bullshit! As if she had a choice."

Across from her Spirit straightens his tie but his expression is weirdly calm. "Fine then."

Inhaling a breath, Maka steels herself. "You  _ were  _ Death's scythe." The tone is crystal clear in her meaning. While being Death's weapon, how could her mother have ever stayed?

The blue eyes hold no vitriol. "And Death City's divorce rate bucks the national trend?" His voice is soft, and she has to focus in order to hear it against the competition of the coffeeshop low-fi setting.

She blinks. "Well… no."

"And your friends?"

Maka bristles. "What about them?"

"They all have perfect families?"

Unbidden thoughts of Liz and Patty being taught to steal and then later being abandoned by their abusive mother rise to the surface of her thoughts-- they have Kid though. And Kid’s own father, Lord Death? He passed so Kid could ascend. The names and faces come faster. Black*Star’s entire clan being eradicated-- but Sid and Miranda raised him. Kilik, raising the twins on his own. Jackie’s family disowned her for being gay. Kim, a witch, raised among students with the sole purpose of eradicating her kind. Harvar never speaks of his family. Neither does Ox. 

And, her own weapon? Her throat is feeling uncomfortable, straining against the tightness, her mouth dry as she whispers, "Well… no." Maka looks around anxiously trying to find a life line.

Instead her eyes are drawn to her father’s face. She's never noticed that his nostrils flare when he's angry. "What about Soul?"

"What about him?" It isn't a snarl but all of a sudden it feels too close to home and too personal for comfort. 

"Do his perfect, monogamous, un-divorced parents love him the way you expect loving parents should? Does his father live up to  _ your  _ standards?" 

She wants to hear malice and cruelty in his words, but the question is soft. So soft and filled with something akin to compassion or regret, and it explodes within her. She doesn't want to hear this. Doesn’t need to hear this.  _ He's  _ the villain here. Spirit does not get to bring up other people’s parents.

Around them the carefree sounds of normal people begin to wash over her. People who have no idea that she's facing an emotional crisis from which she has no answers for. This isn't a test, it never has been. If it was, she wouldn't be constantly trying to find the solution. 

"Not that it matters, but I planned to step down. Lord Death even sanctioned my request. Marika left anyway.” He’s telling this to the mug in his hands, nicotine stained fingertips twitching on the white cafe ceramic. “Yes, I'm selfish, and yes I chased skirts, and yes I  _ had _ a drinking problem.” His red hair is catching the morning rays-- only now there are bright strands of silver white starting to pepper through. “I'll keep smoking, thank you. But choosing you-- that I'll never take back, Maka. Never in a million years."

Her eyes snap to his, the blue-green intense and focused. There's no way he'd know Soul's exact words -- Spirit can't lie to save his life. Her blunt nails bite into the palms of her hands. 

"I wish I had more to give you. I wish I could force her to come back and face you. I wish you could understand--” There is something painful in his look and she wants to claw it from him before he says his next words. “--Wish you wouldn't try so hard to be like her--"

She can’t cut him off fast enough. "Why wouldn't I want to be exactly like her?" Is he stupid? "She's perfect!!!"

His jaw is tight. And Maka hates that she grinds her teeth in the exact same way. 

And yet he refuses to rise to the bait, the fight goes out of him as quickly as it flared. "Okay, Maka. You know best. If perfection is what you aim for…" There's something he wants to say. Is it the answer to her question? "Forget it."

"Forget what?" Her tongue clips both 't’s' unnaturally. 

"Nothing."

A typical response from a typical coward. "Tch."

"Really? Demonize me all you want, Pumpkin. Facing you--” He takes a deep breath. “It takes a measure of--" he pauses again before shaking his head reaching for his suit jacket draped on the bench next to him "-- it isn't easy facing your anger. But I'll bear it. Always."

She almost doesn't catch the last bit, because she bristles when his hand braces on the back rest of her chair. He stops short of kissing the top of her head remembering himself before he straightens up only to walk out. The tiny little girl she used to be, yearns for that kiss but Maka shoves it into her mental closet. 

She’s left sitting in the chair frozen and stunned. Surely he couldn’t-- wouldn't dare insinuate that it takes  _ courage _ to face her, let alone any measure of bravery. Those are traits she received from her mama and her mama alone.

The knot is steadily growing in her throat. An emotional cancer.

The same mama who hasn't reached out to her in ten long years. Not to wish her a single happy birthday. Not to check up on her when Spartoi was sent to fight on the moon. Not to see if she's still alive... 

Her throat feels as if she's swallowed red hot embers. 

Just how stupid does Spirit think she is? He sits before her just fine…

The heart in her chest protests against the clenched vessels of her fists embedded in her lap, the hardened hunch of her shoulders, and the weight of her head hung low. 

Stupid, stupid, stupid Papa! Her fist hits the tabletop.

///

When she collects herself enough to exit, Soul is there. Casually leaning against his bike waiting for her. As if they had been in the diner together and he was only waiting for her to get the check while he got their ride. 

“You okay?” His eye brows dip under the rim of his beanie with the upturn of his question.

Wouldn’t it be great to say, she’s fine. Maybe she can just avoid the question. And with every intention to do so, she opens her mouth but her shoulders hitch, and some strangled sound comes out of her. Her eyes are spilling over with frustrated tears and it’s a very broken “No” that she sobs into Soul’s chest when he encompasses her small frame within his arms. 

Death’s Last Scythe holds her on the sidewalk while other people bustle about. Each and every one as lost in their own complex narrative as she is within hers. Not that it makes her feel any better knowing. 

They stand there an eternity but in reality it’s only a few minutes before Soul leads her to his bike and hands her the helmet he purchased for her. The vibration of the bike lulls her into a hypnotic void. 

Nevada landscapes blur, either because of tears or speed or a mixture of both. The sound of her breath is loud in the enclosed helmet where Spirits words bounce around. 

It’s been over ten years. If she lets all of this go then Papa wins. Even if he has no idea that she’s been keeping score on this one sided game. He’s been married to Blair for five years. Five years that she’s been watching and waiting. Waiting for him to screw her cat mom over just like he did mama. Although mama did stick around fourteen years, so maybe she’ll have to wait longer. 

They trudge up the sun soaked stairs until they reach the landing of their floor. Soul taking a moment to unlock the door, the air conditioned air blasting her as she makes her way to their living room, dropping her bag on the side table along the way. Wordless anxiety is a tennis match within her. 

Soul hands her a cup, upon further examination the content, Maka notes it’s only water. Her hands stretch out and accept it without comment. Sometimes she isn’t sure if she’d wish he wasn’t this kind and giving to her and yet, that’s all he does; he gives. 

And it ignites her anger. “I can’t believe him!” Nothing else, just the constant indignation caused by his words.  _ "Do his perfect, monogamous, un-divorced parents love him the way you expect loving parents should? Does his father live up to your standards?"  _

What in Death is her papa driving at? It only registers after a moment that Soul is looking at her while also not looking as if he’s trying to give her space inside her own head. 

“Soul?” The way his name is formed on her lips has him turning to her and it makes the next question spill out senselessly. “Does your father love your mother?”

“Buh…” The silence continues but his lashes flutter in her peripherals as her cheeks burn red. There’s the gravelly sound of him clearing his throat. “… No. Not really.” 

When she finally has the courage to look his way, he’s staring pointedly at his hands. The hands of her pianist, Last Death Scythe, partner seem to hold no answers. His shoulders draw up along with his breath. “I don’t really know my parents. I haven’t spoken to them since I left for DWMA. Pretty sure they pretend I don’t exist for the most part.”

Maka knows all this. And hearing him recap it for her benefit feels heavy and unprocessed in her gut. Guilt. Why is she burdening him with this again? “Not even after the moon?”

“No. Easier that way.” His red eyes lock onto hers and his long fingers reach out to hold her hand. “Heir and a spare is how the Evanses roll and have for as long as I remember. Family goes all knives out for the inheritance and marries into more funds and the vicious cycle continues.” Absentminded patterns are being traced carefully on the back of her hand but he pauses and looks up at her. He’s never really spelled it out like this to her. “I found it interesting that Death Scythe Clans don’t work that way. But you never made a big deal out of it.” 

Processing what he’s saying without trying to respond in real time is something she’s been working on for a few years honestly listening but with the revelation of the last bit Maka’s face scrunches. “What?” 

The tilt of his chin and the raised eyebrows disappearing into his fringe would be comical in any other situation but this one. Why is that? An involuntary giggle escapes her and she’s a slurry of different emotions. Only Soul Eater would make her lose her train of thought to giggles at a time like this. “That’s absurd, Soul,” she says, when she can manage a breath while his hand is ruffling her hair. “Weapon families don’t really work that way?” And now that she says it, she wonders if there is any truth to it. 

Scattered thoughts stray to Stein and Marie but mostly to baby Shelley-- will their toddler be a greater meister or weapon surpassing her own parents? Huh, Stein always was amazed at her ability to control Witch Hunter at the tender age of fourteen. And Mama turned Spirit into Death Scythe not much older than when she herself did the same for the man sitting beside her. Still though, she shakes her head, “I don’t think--” nothing is coming to mind. She is at a loss “--I don’t know.” 

Why does not knowing the answer to a question feel like a cop out? At the top of her emotional roller coaster with thoughts starting to spiral again, Soul cuts through the fog. “It’s okay you know.” To her patented ‘huh’ he continues, “You don’t have to know everything. And if you do need to know, that is, we can ask-- Do you think Stein has studied it? We don’t have to ask him-- but we could. Or even your dad...” 

Silence blankets the void after his words fade replaced by the small sounds of the quiet apartment, the air conditioner kicking off making way for the sounds of the analog clock she has in her room-- which has become their shared office-- the hum of the refrigerator, and the sound of Soul drawing in a breath which recaptures her full attention. “It’s stupid--” he rushes to get his next words out “--what families in my parental’s circle have done for generations, what my own parents did.” It weighs on him physically dragging his head down. “Maka, they’re miserable. I’m pretty sure they’ve both had their own affairs at various points-- them staying together doesn’t make them better people. It just makes them miserable, lying, assholes.”

By the end of this statement his head is on her lap and it’s the denim of her jeans that receives paisley tracings. The softness of his snowflake hued hair is a comfort for her fingertips and she appreciates that he is giving her visual space to process. 

_ His perfect, monogamous, un-divorced parents... _

“Your parents aren’t monogamous.” 

“Nope.”

It feels impossible to expand her lungs against the vice that has tightened there. “Your father cheated on your mother?” She can’t quite keep the judgement from her tone.

Against her thighs Maka feels his jaw tighten but he does an awkward body flop to turn around and look up into her bewildered eyes. “...My mother also cheated on him.”

Maka finds it impossible to hold his gaze and instead absorbs the too-bright light of the desert that floods their tiny living room in heat and uncomfortable truths. “Why?” is on her lips without expressed consent.

“You really want to know?”

Eye lashes flutter and her face burns. No. Because-- because it isn’t her place. Yes. Because she’s never considered this possibility. No. The truth will change-- she doesn’t want to consider this possibility and settles on, “It’s not my place.” 

“I know. But, it affected me too.” His too large hand slips over her own. “You know… there’s something I should have apologized for ages ago--” her eyes find his-- “You remember when we first went after Blair?” Maka’s jaw shuts with a hard click but she nods, keeping the peace. “I said something really stupid. I said I wanted to be Blair’s because of her body-- and you know that’s not true…” 

Maka recalls the Book of Eibon, her own cheeks flushing pink with her own reaction to bodies like Blair’s. Even with the full proof of Soul reflecting the traits he was honestly attracted to. A figure that more closely resembled her own and not the Succubus. His next words bring her focus to his mouth. 

“...I was scared. It was stupid and childish and maybe, I was scared of you hurting me first.”

They sit in the silence. Maka  _ would never hurt Soul _ . The bindings of the books on her shelf catch her wayward eyes and make her gut heavy with guilt. Shaking her head, resolving to do better, never like that, and whispers as much. 

“Yeah, Pigtails, I get that now. I learned that real quick.” He’s studying the cuticles of his hands very intently, and Maka tugs his hair lightly. “What I’m trying to say is, I’m sorry. I should have clued you in or something. It wasn't cool.”

“You’re so not cool.”

“Hey now!”

But, his indignation is belayed by their conversation. "Your mom really cheated on your father?” 

Soul’s cheeks inflate and the smile that ghosted his features vanishes with the air he blows out. “Yeah.” He rolls up and off the couch. “I’m not evading, but I am hungry.” In the kitchen he’s rummaging through the fridge. “Want anything? Coffee--” They share a moment that is equal parts you just picked me up from a coffee shop and  _ yeah _ coffee does sound good.

It’s funny that they communicate more and more by assimilated thought than actual words. Her weapon, partner, lover, room-mate has given her a lot to consider. It’s been so long since their first witch hunt that it’s ridiculous that he’s even apologizing about it. They were kids.  _ How would I know, cool guys don’t cheat… _ Soul’s words in the midst of her parents divorce being litigated had cut her deeply. Mama got full custody and Spirit was legally written out of her life. Maka didn’t even live with him, she’d already moved in with Soul. His words even after so many years assuage that past hurt.  _ I was scared of you hurting me first. _

Ceramic slides over the laminated countertop towards her, steam curling. This isn’t the way she envisioned spending the rest of her weekend with Soul. Hormones out of whack. Picking at emotional scabs. “Thanks, Soul.”

His chin jerks in recognition as he sips on his own mug. On the stovetop his second breakfast is sizzling.

Heat transfers through the ceramic searing her fingertips and she holds them to the time-chipped mug. It stings, a little. “You really thought I would hurt you?”

“I mean, can you blame me? You are strong enough to wield me as a scythe.”

It’s possible she’ll roll her eyes into the back of her head. But he’s ignoring her in favor of not scorching his food.

“Look, I hated my mom for a long time, she really fucked over my dad. I felt used by them both. Then I realized my dad hurt her first. Only, it didn’t become apparent until much later that they’re bitter angry adults who are immature enough to avoid difficult conversations in favor of keeping up appearances. You know, like one does.”

Scorched fingertips bring her mug to her lips. 

“My mom was pretty young when she got pregnant with Wes. Since dad was of a reputable family both sets of grandparents rushed them into some shotgun wedding.” Soul mulls his words over, chewing his egg sandwich thoughtfully. 

Maka stares at the swirling contents of her cup. “They were forced to get married?”

“Well, they were boning at the time in a sort of committed pattern.”

“You just said that about your parents.”

Soul’s smirk dies in a cringe. “Doesn’t make it any less true.” He shudders.

“So then what? Wait, exactly how much older is Wes than you?” 

The expressions Soul makes when doing math are endearing. A sudden gut punch feeling hits her, there isn’t a day that goes by that she doesn’t want to see those expressions on that face. “He’s… buh, eight and a half years older. That’s part of the issue with how much they don’t particularly care for me, or my  _ affliction--” _

“The age gap?" Across from her he rolls a shoulder in some sort of affirming gesture. "They still haven’t come to terms with how incredible you are.”

“Nope.” Self deprecation. “I was the quote un quote last ditch effort to save their marriage.” 

Spirits voice lingers in her mind. “Soul…”

“What?” By this point he’s forked the last morsel into his mouth and is now rinsing his plate and loading it into the dishwasher. Maka’s coffee is now lukewarm. “So the thing is, they got pregnant, got roped into getting married, and motherhood changed the matriarch. She was forced to grow up, immediately. My father was just hitting his partying stride. Business dinners. Conventions. Networking events. You name it. 

“It was as if everything my mother was asking for was a huge inconvenience while he was providing for the family. So, once Wes was out of diapers and needed a full time nanny things got out of hand.”

Hands shoot up to cover her mouth, and Maka braces herself for what feels like the next logical conclusion. “Your dad slept with the nanny?”

“No.” Soul’s fingers are nervously drumming on the plastic laminate. “Not initially. Wes doesn’t remember much. Actually, Mom was the one who started some emotional thing with her Pilates instructor.

“After that, Dad slept with the nanny. Mom was pissed, and made her thing with Mark physical.  _ Then _ they thought having me would magically fix their shit. Plot twist-- “ Soul scrubs at chin with the butt of his palm-- “it didn’t.” Maka glares at him for making light of the issue at hand. “They won’t admit they’re unhappy. Now they’re civil, and discreet. I don’t ask.”

Head in hands, Maka stares at the countertop trying to make sense of the random pattern of the fake marble. “So, you thought I might someday do the same thing?” When the faux marble fails, her eyes fall on her fingerprints wondering how much is bound by nature vs nurture. If only to act as a shield, because she really doesn’t want to see what must be written on Soul’s face. 

“Maybe for that split second.”

It hurts hearing that truth. “And now?” It’s something she needs to understand. 

“I told you they put me in therapy when my anger issues started manifesting in demon blades, right?” Her head bobs involuntarily with memory recall. “Therapy basically became me trying to make sense of my family-- Jeezus fuck, no one ever tells you it’s okay to hate your family. Eventually I landed on they’re grown ass adults who do grown ass things and fuck ‘em. 

“It was hard coming to terms that my own baggage was clouding my perception, Maka--” his red ember eyes burn hotly at her-- “but, I found my family at DWMA.” 

Time stretches like late afternoon shadows after Soul’s statement before he breaks their eye contact. Across from her on the counter, he remains frozen, a perched kitchen gargoyle. And Maka’s back is protesting her bent posture. What the hell is wrong with people? Her heart is screaming.  _ How can they think that's okay? _

_They don't think._ His bittersweet words reach her through resonance, it feels as if he has more to say but in resonance honing into emotion and articulating it is like speaking train of thought. 

"Soul..." It’s mournful, filled with the pain she can only imagine he’s experienced and can’t do anything about. Saying ‘sorry’ sure as hell wouldn’t change anything. 

He rolls a shoulder slipping off of his perch and walks behind her wrapping his arms around her bent figure, “Don’t be,” he whispers to the angel hairs on her temple. Knowing regardless of her not articulating it. “I wouldn’t be who I am today and, I may have never met you.” 

Unfurling like a plant following sunshine, her back straightens when he leans away from her. Maka turns slowly on her stool looking up into the eyes of her once weapon partner. “Do you wonder if we’ll make the same mistakes as our parents?”

Whatever he may have expected her to say, this wasn’t it. Several iterations of surprise go through waves on his face. “I sure as fuck hope not.” 

Soul gently removes the hand she’s rubbing her face with and interlaces his fingers. “Talk to me Maka--” she meets his gaze and she feels herself reflected-- “you’re scaring me.” 

“I just don’t know what we’re doing with our lives.”

“Seriously?”

“Yes, Soul, seriously. You’re Kid’s weapon now.”

“Yes, Maka.” His arms are caged around her and he feels rooted; she entrapped. “Thanks to you.”

She bristles instantly. “Okay?!”

“Wasn’t that your goal all this time? Are you really upset with me because you reached your achievement and feel lost now?” 

She rockets to her feet without knowing how or why. And in the dark recess of her memory Stein’s candles resurface in her mind's eye. This feels strangely akin to losing their resonance. Alarmed, Soul draws up to his full height taking a step back from her fury. If she continues to push it’s going to be her that drives him away.  _ Did… _ Maka sucks down a hard breath deflating into the stool with a hard thump. A hand clutching her heart, she opens the door to something she doesn’t want to acknowledge.  _ Did Mama push away Papa?  _ Which is absurd because Spirit never left.

“Did she, Soul?”

Palpable confusion paints his knotted eyebrows, she’s lost him completely but now that she’s opened the sluice gates nothing is left to retain her fears. And the words come spilling out of her. 

“Was I not good enough? Why didn’t she ever contact me? Was it really all my fault? I don’t know. I don’t know why she won’t come back. Am I just like her?” His face is swimming behind the wall of tears building to obscure her vision. “Soul, I’m terrified I’m just like her-- and that I’ll leave you like mama left us… and I… I’m not--” she devolves into body wracking sobs. “I couldn’t save Crona.” The emotional wound is torn wide now. “I  _ promised _ . I promised!” 

Weightless in her catharsis. Lost to the fears she’s never let loose. Spirit stayed. Soul has never left. They’ve all watched as she’s chased a perfect ghost. One that never wanted anything to do with her the moment the door closed behind her. The swell has completely caught in the riptide of emotions. 

Hours pass or maybe minutes but when she finally washes onto shore and opens her eyes she’s on their bed encased in his arms. A cup of water is handed to her wordlessly. 

“I’m not going anywhere.”

So many things are going through her mind and yet “Why” keeps coming to the surface.

“Because--” he brushes her damp fringe away from her eyes-- “love is a choice.” He looks off toward the window. “I’m lucky you love me back ‘s all.” Somewhere in the shape of his soul more is being felt than said, but there’s something Maka needs to ask before she can’t ask it.

“Do you want them?” It’s the conversational equivalent of dumping a bucket of ice and water over his head. “Hypothetically,” she adds as quickly as one can after they’ve fired shots. 

He stares at her.

“Kids,” Maka clarifies and then his eyelashes start fluttering. 

“My dad’s a dick…” He might be thinking other things but she isn’t privy to them. “I don’t want to be like him. I’d hate myself if I was like him.”

His words have barely cast off his lips before she’s contradicting him. “No, you’re nothing like him. Soul--” something in his gaze makes her stutter the last of her phrase before she stops speaking-- “you’re too good…” It’s one of her character faults, endless, toxic positivity for everyone but herself, her lips press together in an effort to keep her mouth shut.

The fringe brushing hand cups her face. “Do  _ you  _ want to be a mother?”

Her mouth unseals with an inelegant, “Uh.” 

To this eloquence Soul responds, “I get the sense that if you can’t test a theory you aren’t comfortable with it.” 

Spirit remained. Mama left. Does she really want to test her theory out? And her texted conversation comes to mind. “If I got pregnant and didn’t… didn’t want it...” The whispered word and all its implications weigh heavily in her prefrontal cortex-- “Would you be okay with that?” Is what she asks instead of  _ Would you want me to keep it? _ Which is what her papa had asked. Does this mean she’s trying to trap Soul into an answer? Into the answer she wanted to hear from Spirit? 

“...Are you giving me a say?” he answers with a question of his own. Not one that he lets her give a response because he goes on. “Or is this your body your choice-- because for the record, it is and it is. So... are we talking about this… are you giving me a say?”

The way he looks at her conveys more than he knows. He can’t separate her from him so aborting an  _ it  _ as it were... No. No-- it’s  _ her _ call. “I… would support you.” But resonance tells her the answer hurts him and perhaps the answer hurts her as well. And she has nothing to say to this. 

“If I get a say-- I’d rather not take a chance.” His chest expands with the air he sucks in, “Don’t tell Star I said this-- but he has a point.”

The light strobes before her rapidly blinking lashes. “What point?”

Soul tucks her more securely under his arm and he feels like a furnace burning into her side. “‘People are  so preoccupied with whether or not  **they can** ,  **they** don't stop to think if  **they should** .’”

Sidetracked, she asks bluntly, “When did you guys watch Jurassic Park?”

“We were talking about-- wait a minute, that’s why it sounded so good.” She can feel the mental note he makes to kick her god-brother’s ass later. “I should’ve known he couldn’t be that philosophical on his own.”

They’re both quiet. 

“Look, I’d rather be cautious because it’s something we’d create together. I hear it’s hard enough as it is without the ‘oops’ factor. Fuck, I’m proof of that.” 

He doesn’t have anything else to say. And, when she has nothing to say to this, he leaves. It isn’t rude. Tomorrow is a work day. It’s better she’s left alone with her thoughts. What she’s actually left with are the sounds of him tidying up their apartment. Unloading the dishwasher. Straightening up errant chairs. He wanders back into the room, headphones in place, while he folds the laundry. 

The shadows crawl across the room. At some point Soul returns with a bowl of soup that remains untouched. Notifications ding on her phone. The problem is she’s reached the point of no return.

Mama abandoned her, as well.

Regardless of fault-- her mother chose herself over Maka. Nothing she’s done or accomplished is ever going to change that. It’s irrefutable. No matter how much it hurts. No matter how high she climbs. Mama… is never coming back for her. For anyone. 

And… Papa. 

Maka groans and turns her back to the late afternoon sun, clutching Soul’s pillow tightly to her chest. The smell of his shampoo, a small comfort. 

Papa got a second chance, and while he has his head scratching moments of complete immaturity, he’s never let go. He answers her calls. Her sarcastic comments. Birthday cards arrive before her birthday. He’s even become more accepting of the boundaries she’s given him. As terrible of a husband as he was to her Mama, he’s only ever given Maka the level of affection for two parents. And, she’s punished him for it. 

Maybe if she could forgive him, he’d only need to give her enough affection for only a father. Maybe, he’d be able to let go of some of his guilt. Maybe, they’d both be able to heal and move on.

Her arms tighten around the pillow. Tighter. Until her muscles ache and she thinks about letting go, but her body is locked up. 

Papa. 

Or Mama.

Papa.

Or Mama.

If she chooses Papa does that mean she’s forsaking her Mama. Mama who has forsaken her. Mama… who is human. A perfectly imperfect human who became a mother as a young girl.

Maka’s chest spasms as she sucks down a deep breath. Blinking at the darkness that has enveloped her. The bottom of the door glows, and soft sounds of jazz reach her. Just because Mama has always been a perfectionist doesn’t mean Marika was mature enough or ready to raise a baby at seventeen. 

The tightness in her arms is gone, the pillow relaxes in her grip. She holds it gingerly imagining the soul of a girl-- a girl the same age as she was when she defeated the Kishin-- powerful, but a girl nonetheless. One who had just created a Death Scythe. But, not ready for the burdens of motherhood or marriage. It’s easy  _ now _ when she applies thought, to imagine her mother feeling compelled to do the ‘right’ thing. And it proved too much for her to handle. 

A slice of light cuts through her night vision only to blink out as Soul steps into the doorway. “Hey.” His eyes land on the uneaten bowl of soup on the side table behind her. “Still thinking?”

Her head shakes if only a little. 

Below his body weight, the mattress dips as he crawls on top of the comforter scooching closer to her. Heat from his hand resting on her hair radiating from her head down to her soul. 

His fingers pause before he takes in a breath. It’s soft, “Not right now, but maybe, maybe someday. You know  _ if _ we can, and when we’re both ready.”

Her arm reaches out and pulls him closer to her so she can bury her face in his side. It’s more than she feels she deserves, but then again, he’s always been the one who has understood her soul the best. 

//

Morning light streams into the bedroom, Maka’s eyes snap open. Immediately she knows three things. One. Soul is gone. Two. Someone’s in their apartment. Three. Her period has started.

“Pumpkin, Pumpkin! Kyaaaa!” Her stepmother is almost as loud as her Papa and as equally flamboyant. “Wake up, Sleepy Head!”

Groaning, Maka stuffs her head back under the pillow. It’s Monday, Soul’s already left for work. Eyes pinched firmly shut, Maka chalks yesterday up to PMS depression and curses her uterus to the hell hole from whence it came.

Before she knows it there’s a flash and her Step-Cat is slinking across her bed, as comfortable in cat form as she is in human form, the comforter above her stomach is kneaded until Blair plops down attempting to purr the pain away. Maka’s hand sneaks out of the comforter to scratch her behind the ears. On some other planet it might be weird to have a step-mother who can transform into cat form at will. An unexpected knot forms in her throat-- love, why is it so hard to accept that she is loved?

“Kitten’s thinking again,” Blair says sagely from the throne of Maka’s belly. “It’s a good thing your Mama wasn’t an animal.”

If anything can cure the sudden rise in emotion, it is usually Blair’s straightforwardness. “Huh?”

“Scythe-Boy has coffee with Death Scythe from time to time.” She’s demurely licking a paw. Maka only hopes she doesn’t decide to start licking an inner thigh because that’s never not awkward. This is news to Maka, but before she can vocalize this, Blair’s tongue pauses and she says, “Sometimes animals eat their young so they have better chances of survival.” 

Maka’s face scrunches when thrown into abject confusion. “Blair, that’s not really how that works. You know that right.” 

A back hind paw on its way into the air pauses, then she sets it down. “Yes, I know. Or maybe, it would have been good for her to be an animal.” Maka squints. “Most animal mama’s abandon their young after they’re weaned.”

They sit in the silence that follows this statement. 

It isn’t the most eloquent way of offering support, Maka supposes. Blair has a habit of saying exactly what is on her mind, but her soul has always been kind in her own way. The weight of the cat shifts leaving her abdomen feeling cold now minus the sun warmth of Blair. 

Golden eyes fill her field of vision, but Maka looks away trying to sort through her mental bramble. Except, at some point, she is going to have to leave the bed. Even though one piece of her emotional baggage puzzle has been solved, pre-period induced hysterics, it doesn’t absolve her from needing to work through everything else that’s come to light. 

Soft toe beans on her cheek have her looking up. The toe beans don’t compare to the wounded look in Blair’s eyes as her pathetic form is observed by the ocher orbs. And for the second time in less than twelve hours the tears break through. 

A flash of purple, and she’s being gathered into a tangle of arms and her mussed up hair is being smoothed on a warm lap. The only sounds that fill her mind are her own blubbering tears. The soft scratch of Blair’s claws through her hair. The purring emanating from her step-mothers chest.

She isn’t alone. 

She is loved-- like a daughter, by someone sort of like a mother. Soul perception feels Blair’s sorrow and something akin to rage, but even that is subdued by the affection that is held in the act of being embraced. 

/// 

Maka emerges from the bathroom, a cloud of steam trailing her. Blair is singing in the kitchen and the smell of roasted fish permeates the apartment. Soul is going to be annoyed. Maka doesn’t think she has the stomach for fish, but is no less touched by the gesture. 

“Feeling better?” 

Nodding, Maka makes her way to the coffee maker. “Mhm.” 

“Good.” A beat later, after Maka starts rummaging in the refrigerator for her creamer, Blair says, “Maka, I-- I need to tell you something.” 

Grateful that her head is still buried in the fridge, because a litany of conversation scenarios go through her head, but at least she manages a respectable, “Oh?” before she schools her face to a more neutral setting prior to emerging. 

Blair is shifting, scratching at her arm. 

“I know Maka-kitten isn’t always fond of her Papa, but I have to say something--” Maka wants to stop her, not sure what is going to be said but Blair doesn’t give her a chance. “--I made a big mistake when I first met kitten, but I never told you and let you be mad at Death Scythe.” 

This hits her from left field. Even Soul had brought up the past. It’s too much. “Blair, I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

Munching on a piece of fish seems to calm her and gulping loudly Blair says, “This happened a long time ago. You and Scythe Boy were studying for exams. It was after Scythe Boy got hurt…”

Memory transports her back a number of years. “Oh. The super written exam.”

“Yes! That one.” Blair beams, but the clouds return immediately. “Death Scythe was so proud. Did you know he sat under your window with candles waving arms and bad spirits away so you would ace your exam.” 

This isn’t something Maka had ever been aware of. 

But, Blair isn’t looking at Maka, she’s looking subdued. “Death Scythe came to Chupacabras--” Maka’s jaw shuts with an audible click. A vile rise in blood pressure and anger enough to make her want to scream, but Blair is flapping her hands. “No, no, no! Don’t misunderstand, this was how I met your papa.”

It’s difficult to choke down the emotion enough to just listen. So Maka gives a curt nod and hopes it’s enough.

“But but-- That’s not what’s important. Death Scythe gave Blair an important job that day.” 

_ Sure, buying Maka some strange kinky underpants as a congratulatory gift,  _ Maka thinks sourly while trying to remember if she is out of Midol.

“Spirit--” Maka looks at Blair-- “told me how much you love books. He wanted me to buy you a special book as a reward for your top marks. He was so so proud. And, I--” her purple hair is draped over her bowed head “--I spent the money on myself!” 

The second hand of the kitchen clock is loud. And Maka’s brain counts off more than forty ticks as she attempts to process what is happening.

“I bought that panty and bra set for myself!” Blair’s sniffles are hardly muffled by the curtain of hair. “I never even told Death Scythe-- I just let you be mad at him. Maybe, it’s all my fault you are still so angry at him. I’m not trying to replace your mama. I do love him. And--” her head bobs up and her ocher eyes glisten more than usual-- “I love you too, Maka.” 

Maka’s mouth rounds into a small ‘oh’ but no sounds come out. The kitchen linoleum meets her bottom hard as she hits the ground with a solid thump. It had always been so easy to assume Spirit would send her such a sleazy gift, and she’d never had the desire to confront him about it. It takes a moment before she folds her legs into Lotus position. 

A flash of purple later and Blair cautiously stalked into her lap putting her paws on Maka’s chest. “I’m sorry, I never said anything.”

There is information overload and Maka’s processing power is trying to sift through her abdominal pain. But her fingers find their way behind Blair’s ears. If she does this too long she’ll run the risk her Step-Cat will fall asleep. “But, I finally worked up the courage.” Blair already sounds sleepy. “Spirit always says, ‘It takes courage to face Maka. But she gives you second chances, even if you feel…’” she yawns. “‘Even if you feel you don’t deserve them.’” 

Courage. To face her? They keep saying this, but she's just Maka Albarn, no one of any particular consequence. The heel of her palm rubs her eye and the heat pack that is Blair is helping her tum. If aunt Marie shows up next to say she's sorry she let Maka face Medusa alone her camel's back isn't going to hold up. 

Without permission her face breaks into a genuine smile as she recalls a detail. Blair had been so nervous handing over that gift bag. Maka had always assumed it was because she had the unfortunate luck of knowing what was inside. Well, she had known!

A small pang of guilt wells up. 

“Blair, why do you love my,” her speech balks at ‘ _ no good’ _ before she sighs, “Papa?” 

She gives Maka a wide cat yawn that looks dangerous even if it’s anything but. “He’s a good man.”

The scoff still escapes Maka. It isn’t fair. She’s twenty-four and it’s still so hard to accept her father can be a  _ good man. _ Blair thinks as much and ends up kneading her tummy with more claw than paw. “He is,” she says, more firmly. “He is a cat person, I don’t just like anyone.” 

Chastised by a cat, Maka sits subdued, scratching her behind the ears. At least with her purring in her lap it’s simple to tell she isn’t completely mad at her. 

“Maka, why do you love Scythe-Boy?” 

It isn’t the first time she’s wondered how it’s so completely obvious to everyone else that they’re in love. They’re good together… compatible…

“Why aren’t you with--” Blair pauses mid paw lick to examine her nails-- “Harvar?”

She’s affronted, “Why Harvar?”

“I was trying to think of other weapon boys.”

Blair nudges at her hand more firmly with her nose until Maka resumes petting. “I, uh, I don’t know. I suppose  we do get along and I could probably wield him--” Harvar is someone even more perpetually grumpy than her own weapon was. He is kind in his own way, but... “What are you saying?

“Death Scythe’s  wave length is a lot like yours compatible with many others. Marika bent him to her will,” Blair says, and Maka experiences that gut punch that happens when a person casually uses the name she refuses to acknowledge. So she almost misses when Blair says, “You do know Stein switched his toes for fun.”

Stein switched Papa’s toes? A deeply stubborn bone want’s to say he deserved it. And yet, Blair is watching her closely. Her entire body shudders remembering Stein and his hands lifting her shirt. Of Soul protecting her. Of that insidious lie every weapon is forced to learn upon entering the DWMA-- a weapon’s life is not worth the life of the meister. 

It’s simple to know this is wrong when it applies to Soul. Her heart aches. This has always applied to her Papa as well. And Mama...

“You’re angry at your mama.” Blair is quiet. “It’s okay to be angry at her, Maka. But, she isn’t here, and you punish Spirit for it. Always.” 

So she’s the bad guy here? She’s the one who has always been in the wrong? Why is everyone against her? It’s more than that though. But she hasn’t reached the crux of her issue. “ Mama isn’t here because of him!” Her voice wavers, pathetic, a sad scared little girl.

“You’re right. Yes, Spirit cheated on your Mama. He did.” 

Blair doesn’t sugarcoat the truth known by all. Doesn’t even flinch as she says the words. And maybe as his wife she’s been privy to more than he’d ever share with his own daughter. And the panic is rising within her. “So-- so you see why she had to leave.”

“No, Maka. I don’t.” Blair’s words are soft and Maka tries to cover her ears so she won’t hear more. But Blair gives voice to the truth that has been growing slowly in Maka since the Moon. “Your mama isn’t here because she chose to never return.” 

Everyone knows Spirit’s misdeed. His character faults. But, this secret… Has this secret of her mama’s been as obvious to everyone else? Is this why everyone says it? Does everyone know her better than she knows herself?! Panic reaches a breaking point and Maka screams, “WHAT IF I’M JUST LIKE  **_HER_ ** !?”

She’s finally found the courage to lance her wound, and voice her greatest fear, “Blair, what if I leave Soul?”

///

The stairs up to DWMA are as daunting as always, although the difference now is he doesn’t get winded by the time he reaches the top. Coffee with the old man was interesting this morning. He hasn’t exactly told Maka that he meets him, but then again they’re work associates. After all, the old man is the only reason Soul gets vacations from time to time, someone has to be on call. Even if he does bitch and moan, he hasn’t stood him up yet. 

After yesterday, though, Soul had some questions he wanted to run by Death Scythe. Not that he has any clearer picture and it is a niggling feeling in the back of his mind. Something that doesn’t add up. 

Maka’s old man is an odd, over protective father, but it is next level strange to see him in jeans and t-shirts after only ever seeing him in a suit. Red hair in a top knot and reading glasses halfway down his nose, petting his wife (in cat form!) on his lap while he reads the newspaper. They’re so domestic and it never fails to make him scratch his head. 

Blair morphed seamlessly from orphaned roommate to her role as stepmother-- trading thigh high boots for waist high mom jeans-- he still feels bad he sliced her in half. But if Blair never held it against him, how was he going to hold Crona’s actions against them. His hand rubs at his chest and he stares up into the sky.

_ I couldn’t save Crona. I promised. _

He’d also asked if Blair wouldn’t mind checking in on Maka or something. She’d happily puffed into a purple cloud and hopped on her gigantic pumpkin to go visit her kitten. And he’d followed after a few minutes on the pretext of not being late to work.

All death scythes report to Lord Death--  _ Kid. _

In all the years in the aftermath of Kishin Asura, Soul had never once thought of using his position to seek out Marika Albarn. It feels like a breach of privacy, which it most likely is. But, Maka deserves to know the truth, to know where she can reach out and confront the woman whose shadow constantly haunts her. If they ever hope to move forward, Maka needs closure. It still isn’t his place. 

The smooth leather of his wingtips echo clicking down the great length of the hall as he approaches the Death Room. The fact that he has basically traded wardrobes with Spirit rankles, but he refuses to wear a tie out of spite. Not that his boss would ever force him to.

Still though, the question weighs heavily on his mind. 

Is this something he can even request of Kid-- _Hey I need information on Maka’s mom, do you know how we can reach her?_

Inside of the death room his boss stands holding a manila file. “Soul, we need to talk.”

The words hang in the air and Soul stuffs his hands into his pockets leaning away from the man. Notably absent today are the Thompson Sisters. “Oh?” he intones. 

“Spirit called and said you might be interested in finding out information on his ex-wife.” 

Soul’s face goes through a number of emotions before grunting an affirmative. 

Lord Death approaches him slowly handing him the envelope for his inspection. 

Inside the contents are sparse but a small detail catches his eye and he shoots a look at Kid who is watching him quietly. “The way she’s signed her name--” Soul traces the handwriting with his finger as if to test any soul residue-- “No way. No.”

Across from him Kid is tugging at his cufflinks. “I’m not sure what to tell you except that I’ve cross referenced it with the medical records of the time.”

The niggling is there. That little thing that is hard to put his finger on is right there. None of Spirit’s photo albums contain any pictures. Shit, he couldn’t even find one with the shadows in the right place. It’s as if Marika Albarn is a perfect ghost. “Can we ask Stein?” 

Kid’s mouth presses into a thin line as he shakes his head.

“Why not?” Soul asks, temper flaring hotly. “He’s really the only one we have left who might be able to corroborate this at all. Wasn’t it her that told him to stop switchin’ the Ol’ Man’s toes in the first place?” 

“Soul--” Kid takes the folder from where it’s clutched in his hands-- “Think of how  _ she  _ used Stein the last time we knew of her whereabouts.”

“You mean before Maka and I purified her.” 

The black haired white striped head of the Reaper bobs. All of this reeks of a strong magical cover up and Soul says as much. 

“I believe you are right, Soul. The question is, how do we tell Maka that the reason her mother no longer lives is because she purified her soul using Witch Hunter.”

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> I follow a lot of mom blogs on Instagram and a lot of boundary blogs as well and this piece, to me, is about loving someone who is unreachable. Being a mom of two little girls also colors this because I have so many feelings about Maka being abandoned and how that would affect her sense of self. Thanks for reading!


End file.
